


Dance Like No One's Watching

by daymarket



Series: LAS Entries [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 14:44:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daymarket/pseuds/daymarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A courtship, from stakeout to marriage.</p><p>Minific written for the final round of <a href="http://whitecollarlas.livejournal.com">White Collar Last Author Standing</a> competition over on LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dance Like No One's Watching

El doesn’t normally use words like “cute” to describe people, and most people would probably not consider the agent standing before her to be cute in the least. His “interrogation” is endearingly awkward, though, and El can’t help but smile slightly as she tries to remember if he’d stammered this much when interrogating Mr. Preston. No, he’d been all business back then, in control of the situation.  
  
It’d been kind of hot, actually, but this has its perks, too.  
  
“I’m the assistant manager, not the manager, but he’s a pretty hands-off sort of person,” she says, taking pity on him. “I was at a restaurant that night. I paid with credit card, so you can look up the record.”  
  
Agent Burke blinks at her. “Right,” he says. “Um. I’m sure, uh, that we can confirm that shortly. Ms. Mitchell.” He fumbles with his pen. “I’m sure the gallery will be fine. We’ll retrieve your painting soon.”  
  
“I’m not worried at all,” El murmurs. She shakes his hand when he offers it again, and the heat that spreads through her at his touch is a surprise. Not unwelcome, but definitely unexpected. She watches him from the corner of her eye as he leaves and sighs a little to herself.  
  
Well, there’s that. Back to reality—she’s got a burglary to clean up.  
  
*****  
  
She’s tired and cranky as she makes her way up the stairs to her tiny apartment. Peter’d called earlier: said he wouldn’t be back until late, so she has the cold apartment to look forward to at the end of this horrible day. It’s at times like these that she wishes that she’d stayed with the gallery: sure, it paid peanuts, but at least she didn’t have to kiss the feet of egomanical businessmen with far more money than sense.  _It’ll get better_ , she reminds herself grimly as she takes the last few torturous steps up the stairs.  _I just need a steady client base_.  
  
She sniffs and rubs a hand across her forehead, exhausted. Something smells delicious, probably her neighbor’s dinner. Her stomach grumbles at the thought of yesterday’s cold takeout.   
  
She’s fumbling with her key when the door swings open suddenly. She jumps back with a little yelp, hand automatically balling into a fist. Peter’s staring at her from the other side, his eyes wide as he holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry!” he sputters. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I mean, surprise you, but not scare you. I just—uh—”  
  
“What are you doing here?” El pants as she tries to calm her racing heart. “I thought you were out on stakeout!”  
  
He looks at her awkwardly, shuffles from foot to foot. “I swapped places,” he explains, looking like a guilty schoolboy. “You sounded kind of tired over the phone, and I thought I’d come back and whip something up.”  
  
El stares at him, at a loss for words. He reaches out slowly as if calming a wild animal. “I made pot roast,” he says, and she realizes that the delicious aroma is coming from  _their_ apartment. She follows him inside, still slightly dazed. Their apartment is lit with the soft glow of candles. There are roses on the table. The comfy chair is just where she likes it.  
  
His hands are very warm around her.  
  
El shivers as he runs his fingers up her arm, soft and light. She sighs, loose and shaky, and buries her face in his neck.   
  
“How was your day?" he asks quietly. "Long, hard?"  
  
“Forgetting it already," she breathes as she pulls him into a kiss.  
  
*****  
  
Italian. This is where they had their first date, complete with plenty of ribbing (from her), apologies (from him), and laughter (it’d been a good night, all told). She loves this restaurant, but it’s the man across from her—steady, unshakable Peter—that anchors it for her. She tightens her fingers around his and leans forward conspiratorially. “Let’s go home early,” she says, her voice full of promise.  
  
He twitches, and El frowns in puzzlement at the panic in his eyes. “Everything okay?” she asks, concerned. She pauses. “There isn’t a crack team at the house, is there?” she asks, trying to lighten the atmosphere.  
  
“No,” he says quickly. “We can head home if you want. Are you tired?”  
  
“No,” she says. “Is everything all right, honey?”  
  
“Sure,” he says, but she can see the hesitation in his eyes. “Um,” he says, and it’s rare enough to hear him stutter that El’s more concerned than ever. “I was going to—this is so—I. Um.” He gestures wildly. “I need to—sorry.” He groans, rubbing his forehead. “I was going to do this  _properly_!”  
  
Do what? They’re at her favorite restaurant, eating excellent food, having a great time, and what could they do but—oh.   
  
Oh.  _Oh!_  
  
El’s eyes widen. The slow realization is building under her skin, euphoria fizzing through her, wild and ecstatically  _happy_. Across the table, Peter stares at her, wide-eyed and hapless. “Sorry—” he begins, but she shakes her head.   
  
She puts a finger over his lips, tracing the line of his mouth gently. She can feel him shudder under her touch, and the power is heady and pure.  
  
“Yes,” she whispers, soft and fierce. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”   
  
*****  
  
When their wedding day finally comes, their hands are joined tight as they vow to honor, to love, to cherish. El looks at Peter: her calm, steady Peter, who can only ever be undone by her. The words only seal a promise that she knows that they’ve made a long time ago.  
  
It sounds like a bad joke, except that, well, the punchline is so much better. He’s unflappable in the face of whatever life might throw at him, except for all the times that he’s so very  _awkward_ around her. Add a burglary, an interrogation, a morally dubious “surveillance”, one “I Heart Italian” sign, and what do you get…?  
  
It  _shouldn’t_ work. But the thing is, it does, somehow, for them.


End file.
